


Naturalization

by Melospiza_melodia



Series: The xBs [1]
Category: Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Kathryn Janeway (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melospiza_melodia/pseuds/Melospiza_melodia
Summary: No xB is born into citizenship, not unless they reclaim the name of a Federation citizen long ago declared dead.  As Seven and Hugh obtain their citizenship status, they learn they are part of something much more indelible than the Federation.Largely canon-compliant to the ending of Voyager, but contains no spoilers for the last season.
Relationships: Seven of Nine & Hugh | Third of Five
Series: The xBs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788940
Comments: 25
Kudos: 42





	1. The Oath

“Congratulations,” the judge smiled at them all. “Regardless of species or creed or galaxy of origin, you all have reached the final step in becoming a Federation citizen: the Oath of Citizenship. Please repeat after me—”

Hugh’s voice joined the halting chorus in the wood-panelled hall. His eyes swept over his fellow inductees—nearly 100 total—and followed their gaze towards the Federation flag, its welcoming blue field. Blue as the eye he’d received last week to replace his clunky optical implant. In the silence between breaths, he felt the emptiness where the hum of the implant should have lived. The first time, it had been like missing his heartbeat. Now, he gloried in the subtler motion—he could keep his head still! And have both eyes move!—as his eyes and mind wandered from the oath.

Next to him stood a young Ferengi. A rebel and exile from Ferenginar for defying that species’ strict gender binary, they had turned to the Federation for sanctuary. When they had sat next to him over an hour ago, they had been friendly, chirping, “So, what species are you then?”

“Borg,” Hugh responded.

“No, no, I meant before the,” the Ferengi waved a hand up and down at Hugh’s still-visible implants, mouthing, _assimilation._

“I was not assimilated. I was born into the Collective.”

“No one’s born a Borg.” The Ferengi wrinkled their nose.

“I was.” Hugh had stared at them in utter confusion.

The same problem had come up when he’d filled in the form for citizenship. When they had asked him “species,” he scanned the list for “Borg” and found no such box. In the end, he’d picked “other” and tried to swallow the loneliness that overflowed from his stomach. It tasted of quiet metal. It clogged his throat.

Now, his throat filled with the oath of citizenship—one of many molding the same words. The chorus grew smooth as the inductees all fell into lockstep, breaths in perfect unison, lifeforce intertwined with every syllable. Without thinking, Hugh fled into that unison, that familiar discord of many voices meshed. It embraced him, a warm woven nest of sound. It filled him—he was their vessel, an artery joining them in shaping a larger heartbeat. In forging a home. He could almost hear the next words lining up on his tongue, lifting him up—

_"Resistance is futile."_

Every voice halted. Every silent eye turned towards him. Hugh stuttered, heat rising in his cheeks as he tried to find the next line—

_We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own._

_No!_

The judge caught his gaze, smiled tightly, and led them into the concluding words.


	2. At least one of us

“Citizenship status?” Seven stared at the Doctor. “Why would I need that?”

“Seven, legally speaking you are a _persona non grata_ —no more than a minor curiosity picked up in the Delta Quadrant. A piece of debris, as it were, though much more interesting than most.” He smiled at her half-winkingly, but there was something hollow about it. Was his emitter running low on power?

“I have been a member of this crew for the last four years. Do they all think of me as 'a piece of debris'?”

“Of course not, no, but—” the Doctor waved one hand but kept his head down, intent on sorting the sickbay’s tricorders. “The Captain has explained it to me many times. _Voyager_ ’s crew was declared dead two years after our disappearance. Most need a doctor’s note just to be considered alive again—I, of course, can provide them with that courtesy. You or Icheb or Naomi Wilder on the other hand—you simply never existed. A look at the ship’s records will fix that, of course, and the process will be finalized with a declaration of citizenship through naturalization.”

Seven shook her head. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why should I desire citizenship?”

“Seven!” He stared at her. “Federation citizenship is part of what you always wanted: to be an individual.”

“So to become an individual I must join another Collective,” she stated, cocking an eyebrow.

“No, no...well, yes.” The Doctor waved his hand at one of the medbay benches. 

Seven sat down. It was going to be a lecture.

The Doctor picked up a recorder, fiddling with it as he paced around her. His voice modulated into that familiar tone she'd come to label as _lovable, idealistic pedant._ “Seven, to be an individual is an often lonely endeavor. Most people find that this loneliness is abated by finding a—a group of people to identity with. A family. A family that spans the galaxy, whom you’ll recognize even when they’re utter strangers to you.”

 _He talks so passionately about something he can never know. How many other holograms are there, after all, like him?_ “I don’t need citizenship for that. I have _Voyager_. You and the Captain have often said that this crew is a family. From my own experiences, I agree with your assessment.”

The Doctor hesitated, tricorder now truly forgotten.

She looked at him sharply, turning in her seat. “What is wrong? I thought you would be pleased that I have come to this conclusion.”

_You look like you’re in pain. Tell me why so I may repair it._

The Doctor sat down beside her. She glanced at him in surprise. His holographic feet never got tired, and he always preferred to move as he spoke. He once admitted to her that he didn’t see the point in sitting, except as a sign of camaraderie. Or a tactic of comfort.

_Oh—_

“The Captain and I have been...discussing this.” Against all logic, the Doctor looked older. Weary. “She expects the crew will do their best to keep in touch, but...Starfleet will reassign all of us, ultimately.”

“Reassign us.” Seven repeated. _How Borg-like._ “That doesn’t explain your mood. You seem...apprehensive.”

“Janeway also expects Starfleet will find it difficult to accept a sentient hologram or a liberated Borg.”

Seven froze.

“She will fight for us, of course. In fact, I believe that’s why she wants to see all of us in her office at 0:800 tomorrow. But—that fight will be helped if those of us who can, obtain citizenship.”

“Those who can,” Seven repeated flatly. “Implying you can’t?”

The Doctor refused to meet her eye. “There is no _protocol_ for holographic species.”

Seven's hands tightened against the medbench as a wave of anger and fear rose in her core. She swallowed it down, but when she spoke her voice still came out harsh. “Will you be deactivated?”

“We don’t know. There is a risk of… my memory being wiped. My program altered to make me—generic again. Suitable for other ships and crews.”

“The captain will stop it.” The certainty was part of her, sure as any bone or implant.

“She will certainly try.” The Doctor’s voice was gentle.

_“She will stop it.”_

The Doctor stared at her for a moment, then abruptly turned away. Without looking, his hand sought out hers. Without thinking, she grasped it. Grasped it until her own hands stopped shaking. As a hologram, the Doctor’s palm was tepid and left a static tingle on her skin. Nevertheless, it felt the same as Janeway’s arm around her shoulders, Chakotay’s warm hugs, Harry’s high-fives after a game of Parrises squares. It felt like home.

“Take the citizenship, Seven. So at least...one of us can remember.”

The anger rose again—intoxicating and overwhelming as the Collective. She tried to remember the comforting hum of _Voyager_ ’s engines, its smooth gray walls. Bit onto it until her tongue bled. Until the metallic scream died in her throat. “I—I will.”

_So I can fight for you. For us all._


	3. Chapter 3

_“Resistance is—”_

The voice cut through the throng. Seven’s attention snapped to the interluder—a young man with dark hair and a pale complexion and—

Seven’s skin grew cold.

—and the nubs of an implant haloed around his left eye.

The man’s voice died in his throat. His face paled and then flushed as the rest of the congregation moved on. As they rejoined the chorus, his eyes seemed to find hers. Her mouth formed the oath’s conclusion, but a different mantra pulsed under her skin.

_Not futile not futile Not Futile NOT FUTILE NOT FUTILE NOTFUTILE **NOT—**_

When the judge called them up one by one to personally grant their status, she kept her eye on the other Borg. He walked stiffly, as if he still remembered the restrictive grasp of implants along his torso. When he returned to his seat, his eyes swept over her, unseeing.

Seven coolly accepted her own citizenship minutes later. A gasp rippled through the auditorium. Somewhere, a voice whispered, _“Two of them?”_ and was immediately hushed.

Seven returned to her seat. This time, she was successful in catching Hugh’s eye. _What was that motion the Doctor had taught her? Oh, yes._ She winked. He couldn’t bite down the grin in return.

_Well, Doctor, you were right,_ she thought. _Family even as strangers. Even now, I have a collective._

***

Back in the San Francisco sunshine, Hugh claimed a bench. He didn’t bother to offer the seat beside him to his fellow ex-Borg, nor did she ask. She simply sat beside him.

Only then did he look at her. A tall frame, broad shoulders, blonde hair, and a blue Starfleet uniform with lieutenant's pips winking at her collarbone.

“Seven of Nine,” he greeted.

“Third of Five,” she replied. “Or is it Hugh?”

“Just Hugh now,” he agreed. “Hugh of Borg if you must. But after that ceremony,” he nodded towards the court building, “I suppose even that’s gone.” 

“I doubt that,” Seven replied. Noticing Hugh’s slight grimace, she added, “Though I do not understand the effect of such ceremonies. They seem so...inefficient. Wasteful. Back in the Collective, we never would have tolerated such a frivolous use of time.”

 _And which “we” are you referring to—the two of us, or all of Borg?_ Aloud, Hugh said, “I’m surprised you speak of the Collective so openly. With your immersion into _Voyager_ ’s crew, I would have thought you’d have moved beyond such inclinations.”

Seven’s voice grew cold. “The crew of _Voyager_ always welcomed my unique perspective. Even the parts of it that are Borg.” 

_Will you? You, who look so like me?_

Hugh looked more closely at her. She wasn’t like the other ex-Borg who’d been severed with him. She held herself stiffly as the rest of them, but with pride lying in the tilt of her head, her brazen wearing of fuller implants on her cheekbones. And the press release had made it clear: her name was Seven of Nine, not Anikka Hansen.

Would he have done the same, if he had a name to return to?

Shattering his reverie, Seven said, “I had known of you, back when I was still in the Collective.”

A ghost of a smile passed along his lips. “And what did you think of me then?”

“I thought you were a dangerous rabble-rouser, a pathogen infecting our order.”

Years ago, he would’ve agreed bitterly. Now, he laughed, relieved to hear someone say it aloud. “And what do you think now that you’ve met the dangerous rebel?”

“I think you were a lost fool, the same as the rest of us. And—I admire you.”

Hugh fumbled his smile, humbled. It was replaced by something softer and more intimate, which fit his face like a new coat. "And I you. It must have been...difficult to go through reclamation alone.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I already told you: I wasn’t alone. I had _Voyager._ ”

“A new collective.”

From anyone else, she would’ve denied it. “Yes.”

“And now we each have a larger collective in the Federation.”

“The Federation,” she echoed, making it sound like a lost land in a fairy tale. “I spent four years in the Delta Quadrant living off the crew’s stories of the Federation.”

“Does it meet the hype?”

“I expected it to gleam more,” she said dryly.

He chuckled. 

“And I was concerned that it would be...imperfect.”

Hugh nodded. _Imperfect._ The word slotted neatly into his brain, resonating. He hadn’t been raised on shining tales of Starfleet, but he well knew the Borg obsession with perfection. Breathed it, though in this chaotic, individualistic world he often forgot this instinct that pulled on him stronger than gravity. Forgot, that is, until he tripped, and found only that instinct catching him.

“It feels good to talk to another Borg again,” he said. “Seven of Nine, Third of Five—now each one of two.”

“More than two.”

Hugh raised an eyebrow.

“The others who were severed with you, who were infected by your individuality,” Seven clarified. “There were 47 total.”

Hugh hissed in a breath. The sunlight dimmed around him. 

“Our physiology was...damaged by Lore. Most of us died in the reclamation procedure. The rest—went insane. Only four of us made it. The other three, ah, _avoid_ fellow drones.”

 _Lonely._ The word ached under his tongue. _Lonely._

Seven shut down for a minute. Too long. Hugh turned away to watch the horizon, the passing crowds. They wavered in the summer heat.

_Just the summer heat. That’s all._

Abruptly, Seven said, “I wasn’t the only one in the Delta Quadrant.”

Hugh surfaced as if out of frigid water, ears ringing. “What?”

“The others are still underage, so their existence is classified,” Seven explained. “But there are more—at least five more like us. Only one, Icheb, returned to the Alpha Quadrant. He will come of age in seven months.”

Hugh couldn’t remember moving—all he knew is that he now was facing Seven, one hand tightly gripping the bench. “Five more? Borg children?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Seven of Nine, Third of Five—two of many.”

As she spoke, she gestured between them. At “many,” her fingers burst outward like a flower, reaching up.

“Many,” Hugh repeated. The word tasted vast and warm and gloriously new. “ _Many._ I could get used to that.”


End file.
